


Starfire

by AwariaSuit



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn Away From Plot, Porn With Conversations, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 16:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20230963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwariaSuit/pseuds/AwariaSuit
Summary: What happened at the dacha, with more detail.Alotmore detail.





	Starfire

**Author's Note:**

> Works as standalone fic, or as scenes omitted from [Do Everything Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19354180) (chapter [Given](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19354180/chapters/47405860)).

The water is pleasant. 

A far cry from the steamy tub they had entered, but still warm enough that a part of him dreads getting out. 

Sasha has left a few moments ago. — Stay here — he told him. — Enjoy it.

And so with his long arms stretched atop the chipped walls of the tub, he is staying. And enjoying. 

The blushing glow of late afternoon has given way to a murky evening. Toptunov watches as the spring winds tug on the long branches of the weeping willows in the growing darkness. Some of the breeze slips through the poorly sealed window and makes the hairs on his arm stand up. 

— Your pyjamas. — Sasha appears in the doorway. He sets the clothes and towel on a stool, and disappears before he can tell him _thank you_.

When Toptunov joins him in the bedroom, it looks nothing like the drab room he saw earlier. The bare mattress is now covered in sheets and blankets. Behind the metal headboard, thick curtains are drawn together, keeping the draft out. There's a kerosene lamp set on the floor and out of the way, giving off a warm undulating glow. 

— You've redecorated — Toptunov makes a point of looking around. — Nice job.

Sasha dismisses the compliment with a wave of his hand. — You can lay down your clothes on the chair behind you there. — He points to the bundle Toptunov holds pressed to his chest, like a shield.

He does as directed and turns back, unsure of where to go and what to do next. Sasha is still digging through the wardrobe. Toptunov rubs his arm, and moves to sit on the edge of the bed.

— Tired? — Akimov's voice floats in from beyond the wardrobe doors.

— Nah. — He lifts his hand as if to look at his watch before he remembers he isn't wearing it. But it must be at least seven, eight o'clock by now. — I feel refreshed. Ready to go to work, — he quips. 

Something soft flies out from Sasha's direction and lands on his face. — Get to work then. Put these pillowcases on. — He closes the door to the wardrobe and walks out of the room.

_Sasha_, he shakes his head. He has to do everything right and by the book. Pillows must have pillowcases. He turns and reaches for the pillows at the other end of the bed. When Sasha returns, he's stretched out comfortably on top of two pillows, his arms crossed underneath his head. — Order completed.

He laughs, a little nervous, and sits up, crossing his legs. Sasha shakes off his felt slippers before sitting down on the bed, next to him. The kerosene lamp flickers. Their eyes meet. Akimov's, still behind his glasses, but Toptunov can see that patient anticipation, longing and wanting. 

He decides to move just then, more out of instinct than anything, and lift his hands and gently pull off Sasha's glasses. The moment they're off his face, Sasha lowers his eyelids. His lashes cast tiny dancing shadows under his eyes. Then he looks up again, eyes naked, completely unarmed. Toptunov could watch this moment play out again and again.

Still holding the glasses, he realizes that, no matter what happens next, that it was he who undressed Sasha first.

He leans back and deposits the folded glasses on the night table. No sooner do their eyes meet again that a finger lifts up his chin lightly and his lips are met with Sasha's in a kiss. It's a long and meandering sort of kiss. The kind starts off sweetly, then ebbs and flows, as more and more of his mouth is claimed by Sasha's unrelenting advance.

All of this is still quite new and strange. Even if it isn't technically their first kiss. But for Toptunov, each and every time it happens, it is a first. First of that day. And each day is strung like a rowanberry on a string, ripe and beautiful, and yet so fragile, lasting only for so long.

They pull back from each other just slightly, lips still very much touching, and breaths mingling. It is like standing on the edge of a seashore, the wave has just brushed past your feet. You feel that gentle pull into unseen depths of the sea, and

_dive in_

Sasha deepens the kiss, letting his tongue explore, first, and finally meet Leonid's. He cradles his head as he does. Carding fingers through his hair, it's like a slow motion massage, and Leonid closes his eyes as his senses overwhelm him.

_Sasha's fingers at the back of his head_. He can feel the tingling, but it's more like, well, he's seen a cat purring once, and it's like that. Like his whole head is purring to his touch.

When they part for breath, Leonid pulls back and opens his eyes.

— I still can't — he starts, and pauses to look at Sasha again. — Sometimes it feels like a dream, a-a fantasy that I'm having. Kissing you.

_Kissing you_. Oh, how his voice softens and wavers. And in a way that Akimov could never anticipate would drive him to feel such tenderness, so much that it almost hurts.

— Then we are dreaming together.

And he cups his cheek, lightly, tracing a line under his eye, and adds — Leonid.

_Leonid_.

That's how he does it. How he grounds him in the moment and cuts through all the background noise of Toptunov's thoughts. With the invocation of his name, Sasha Akimov holds the key to his attention, whether it's in the control room, in the steamed up bath room, or here, on a lonely squeaky island of a bed in the middle of dacha that has seen better days.

Toptunov touches his own chin in a pretend gesture of deep thought and asks — Don't you think that, together, we could have dreamed up a place that's a _little_ nicer than this? — He shoots a sideways glance at the room.

— Oh, I don't know, — Akimov rolls his eyes. — I think it's perfect.

— Perfect.

— Yeah. And you know what else?

— What, Sasha.

— I bet I can change your opinion.

Toptunov raises his eyebrows, but that's about all he has time to do before Sasha's mouth is on his, again. And this time he's not letting him go, or break for air, or slip out of his grasp.

He presses down on the part of his chest that's uncovered by the already rumpled and twisted pyjama shirt, Leonid falling back onto the pile of pillows he had previously arranged. 

Akimov hovers over him, briefly, as if to take a mental photograph of the entirely enticing disheveled state that Leonid is in, then dives down and gets to work. He parts the row of his shirt buttons easily enough, revealing the rest of that delectable flesh.

Leaving a trail of kisses and sighs emanating from Leonid he moves down toward his abdomen, when he feels something poking him and oh he is hard already. 

He reaches to pull down the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, only to have Toptunov shudder beneath him, then raise is head to peer at him past his ravaged shirt. — Sasha?

— Shhh... close your eyes.

— Unnghh... — Leonid hisses as Sasha's fingers wrap around his hardness, beginning that smooth motion of up and down, up and down.

He pulls back even further, licking and grazing, until his mouth and hand are roughly in the same place, and then takes him into his mouth. Toptunov chokes back a cry, at the sensation of hot and wet and tight surrounding him, drawing shock after shock of intense pleasure.

Akimov looks up, only to see Leonid biting his lips, eyes shut, holding his moans down to a murmur, like a radio when it's playing behind a closed door, in another room.

Slowly, he moves forward to hover above him. Leonid opens his eyes, the sudden absence of Sasha's mouth a rather unwelcome development.

— Don't — Akimov kisses his forehead, pearled with sweat. — Don't fight it. — He leans over to his ear. — I want to hear all the wonderful noises you are making. 

— Someone might —

— There's no one around. — Akimov reassures him. — For at least ten kilometers. 

He moves back, as if to return to his interrupted ministrations, but then swings forward again, face to face with Leonid. Dipping down he kisses him, and _oh, that's different_ now he is tasting Sasha and himself all in the same kiss.

— Besides, if there's anyone around, I want them to hear you. 

With that bold statement he finally makes his way back, leaving a trail of kisses along his chest, and taking note of Leonid's sensitive spots. Once he's back where he started, he gives him a long lick from the very base and is pleased to hear Leonid hiss and moan in pleasure.

He takes him all the way in, and it's as if he had turned the radio up. 

— Oh... Sasha, _Sasha_. Ye-enhs, ah. Uh, ah... — His voice devolves into breathless moans, punctuated by _Sashas_.

He can tell that Leonid is getting closer when he feels his fingers, up until now tangled in the sheets, move to touch his head. Timidly at first, raking through his hair, then lightly exerting pressure, and following Sasha's up and down movements.

Good, Akimov would tell him, if his mouth was not full at the moment. And he wants him to take control of his pleasure. To be an equal partner in all of their endeavors.

— Sasha, it's, oh ah, _mmhmm_, Sasha! — Toptunov's moans gain a new level of urgency. — Going to — 

He gets one final trailing with his tongue, all the way from the bottom to the tip, before he rises to hover above Leonid. Propped with his left hand, and continuing with the gentle up and down motions with his right. 

He doesn't need to move his hand, really. Arching his back, Leonid repeats his name in hurried whispers as thrusts against him, so eager to reach his release.

— Open your eyes.

The next words out Leonid's mouth are completely unintelligible.

_There_. 

It's Sasha's voice that does it. Or, the look in his eyes, as the sea-green lock with Toptunov's grey-blue. Or maybe it's all of that, and the wonderful, wonderful touching that propels him toward ecstasy. 

Sasha watches him as he rides it out, every drop of sweat, every twitch of his face, and every expletive on his lips. He kisses the top of his head, now crowned with sweat-stained hair.

_You are so fucking beautiful, Lenya._

Toptunov, when he is finally able to control his breathing again, lifts his head to look down. He surveys the post-explosion landscape of his midsection.

— Apparently I made a mess — he concludes, his voice still a little shaky. — And you were right. I have amended my opinion of this place.

Akimov leans away for a moment, then hands him a towel. It had already been dampened. 

— May feel a little cold — he warns.

That's Sasha. Thoughtful. _Prepared_. He gives Leonid space to wipe himself off, while he reaches out to pick up his glasses from the night stand. Soon he is stretched out to Leonid's right, looking up idly at the ceiling. 

— Drop it on the floor — he answers the unasked question, when he hears Leonid's arms cease moving. There's a soft thud as the towel lands on the floor, and soon Toptunov is lying back next to him.

— Anything interesting up there? — He glances up and then at Sasha.

— Oh, you know. Just a whole great galaxy of... peeling paint. — Akimov replies. — Look there — he points to a crack originating in a corner and zigzagging slightly along the ceiling. — I think that might be a comet.

Toptunov looks up with interest.

— Oh, but Sasha — he exclaims after a moment. — You are missing a whole constellation right there in front of you.

He takes hold of Sasha's left hand with his right, twining their palms. As he points up at the clusters of spots where paint has flaked off from the ceiling right above them, he moves is head next to Sasha, snug, so that their vision is aligned as much as possible.

— There. And there, and there. — He drags their hands along a path between three large spots, forming a slight curve. — He then pulls their hands outward, at a slight angle, and dips as he outlines the bottom of a rectangular shape, punctuating each of the four spots with a _there_.

— But what is it? 

— It's the plough.

— More of a wheelbarrow, if you ask me.

— No, _the_ Plough. Part of the constellation Great Bear. 

_Ursa Major_.

— Ah. Is that your favourite, then?

— It is, yeah. — Toptunov admits and lets their hands fall to their sides. He then smiles, as one would at a memory from long ago. — In my university days, I gave a name to each of the seven stars. Named them after girls I was fond of.

He falls silent then, unsure how his remark will be interpreted by Sasha. It's embarrassing to bring that up, right? Past attractions. He should not have mentioned it. 

And he hasn't really thought about it, until now. Properly thought about it. Because Sasha, well, this _thing_ that they have between them, it sort of electrified his life, exploded, like a supernova. He's been basking in its glow, drawing energy from it ever since. 

Even if it is, by its nature, clandestine. 

A thought bubbles up in him then, a tiny little revolt. Why must something that feels _so right_, need to stay hidden and suppressed like that, to be lived though only in fits and bursts?

— We-ell — Sasha breaks through the simmer of his thoughts. — Here in the Great Galaxy of Flaking Paint, recently discovered and so named by one amateur astronomer, A. F. Akimov, none of the stars have been named. — He turns to Leonid. — Yet. So you have some work to do.

— Is that so?

Toptunov reaches for his hand again, and raises them both, pointing at the ceiling. — Sasha... Sasha... and Sasha. — He traces the handle of the plough, then positions their hands to retrace the bottom. — Sasha... This one, also Sasha. Another Sasha. And finally, let me think... yes. Sasha.

— Incredible. — Akimov muses.

— What is?

— That you happen to know _seven_ women named Sasha.

Toptunov drops their hands again, and punches him, playfully, on the side.

— Sasha — he chides him. Turning his head to face him, a wave of earnestness floods his eyes. — I happen to be _very_ fond of you.

How is he doing that, Akimov wonders, again. This modulation of his voice, the way it can lilt and waver, reaching a frequency that drives his body's circuitry absolutely mad. And there's no warning. It knocks his breath out of him, sometimes. Part of the impact pinches at his heart, and part of it makes him hard, instantly.

Toptunov takes note of that, and aims for a playful tone. — It appears that I have a favour to repay.

— Not at all. — Akimov contradicts him and props himself on his elbow.

Toptunov looks up, confusion blossoming on his face. _He doesn't want it?_

— Tonight is not about me, Leonid. — He moves to cup his face, then drags his thumb softly across his cheek. — It's about you.

_You're the star. My star_.

Akimov leans down to kiss his forehead, but Leonid presses a palm to his chest, stopping him. — No — he whispers.

He props himself, then sits up, motioning for Sasha to do the same. From horizontal to vertical, the change in perspective is a little dizzying. Gone is the vastness of the Great Galaxy of Flaking Paint that had stretched before them. Back into view comes the faint light of the kerosene lamp, the dusty curtains, and the side table with its clutter.

— No? — Akimov sits on his side, leaning on his right arm.

Toptunov moves toward him, and clambers partway into his lap, wrapping his arms around and behind Sasha's neck. They reshuffle and reconfigure their limbs until they can find a comfortable position, entangled with each other and adrift in the tiny ocean of twisted sheets.

— It is about _us_ — Toptunov says, finally, and leans in slightly. — The both of us. 

With his free hand, Akimov removes his glasses and sets them aside. Unencumbered now, Leonid leans in further, until their foreheads meet. 

— But I _know_ what you were trying to say — he whispers, almost directly into Sasha's lips. — Just now, and earlier, too. — His eyes dart toward the door, briefly, and his eyelashes flutter against Sasha's eyelids, sending a chill up his spine.

— So this is my answer, okay?

Akimov barely finishes replying with _okay_ before his lips are wrapped up in Leonid's. 

The kiss starts out slow, lazy almost, with none of the frenetic energy of all the ones that have come before. The ones they've stolen, in stairwells and in shadows. Leonid opens his mouth a little wider, inviting him into the next level of intimacy and Akimov responds in kind. 

This give and take, he cannot help but think that it is much like controlling the reaction, and the thought amuses him. Because what really is that tangle of feelings and wants and needs building up inside him, and between them, if not a great big reaction? 

But just as soon as the thought arrives, he lets go of it. Leonid has now placed his hand on the back of his head. He presses him forward and Sasha gives a little groan in response, one that they can both feel rolling deep from his throat.

Their slow pace shifts, quickens into more of a sprint as they pass deep kisses between one another, breaking for air and diving right back in. Leonid is first to venture beyond. He trails the caresses of his lips down the side of Sasha's neck, and across the ridge of his clavicle. 

The journey back takes him along Sasha's jawline and up to his ear. All the while listening to the happy little noises emanating from him, the _ughns_, and the _ahhs_, and _Lenyas_. Especially the _Lenyas_.

— This must be what you meant about not fighting it — he whispers into Sasha's ear, at once sensual and a bit cocky, feeling a little reckless from the effect he is having on Sasha.

Akimov turns to him, eyes darkened a step — Mmhrmm. — He purrs, then moves his arms as if to embrace him, but instead runs his hands long his back, from the bottom to all the way up, grazing skin with his fingernails, only just.

Toptunov gets his comeuppance.

— Oo-ohhhh ohhhh oo-ooo — he mumbles out and shudders.

— That's exactly what I meant. — Sasha breathes into him, just before he seals their lips in a kiss. He deepens it, as a diversionary tactic, a prelude to sliding his right arm to the small of his back and then propelling forward, toppling them both. 

Just before Leonid lands on them, he has the presence of mind to grab his glasses and transfer them to the relative safety of the floor. 

Now that he is fully surrendered to gravity, Toptunov renews their frantic pace of kisses and moans with vigor, arms reaching out and roaming freely along Sasha's frame, hot and _urgent_.

But this won't do. Not for long, anyhow. 

— Hold on to the rails — Akimov directs him to move his hands to the headboard.

— Why? — Leonid's hands stop their roaming, and after a second or two he reluctantly acquiesces, wrapping his fingers around the thin bars.

— You'll see.

Akimov pulls his slightly swollen lips before into a kiss and touches him, and Leonid's mind goes blank for a moment. How can he form coherent thoughts when Sasha's hand has him wrapped, stroking, bringing that exquisite friction and radiating pure pleasure from below and out into every millimeter of his body. This is too good and too much and —

— Sasha, what're you —

But Sasha isn't listening, his lips have traveled down to his chest, and it's the hot breath and a lick and kiss of his nipple, and one more stroke, and Toptunov is — Ahhh, _Sasha_ — undone. 

— Why did you — he starts, accusatory, still trying to catch his breath.

— Because I need you to be more — _moderated_ is the first word that comes to Akimov's mind, but he pushes it aside — relaxed.

— Rela-relaxed. Hooo... okay. — Leonid finally unclasps his hands from the headboard. — Okay.

Sasha wipes his hand with another towel. _How many towels does he have over there_, Toptunov wonders and observes as he picks up something off the table, a jar of some sort. His thoughts are still too scattered, still too flooded over with the wave of pleasure that is just now dissipating, leaving every part of his body languid, and one part very sensitive.

— This, uh, this is going to feel a little strange.

Toptunov swallows. — A _little_.

But all of this is already strange. And new. So terribly new that he's been alternating between the delight of discovery, denial, doubt, desire, and delirium — 

— Leonid.

— Yeah?

— Do you trust me?

— I trust you, Sasha.

He wraps up his fiddling with the jar then, and moves to gently spread Leonid's legs as he leans down to kiss him, leaning on this left hand, while the index finger of his right pushes in 

_oh _

and it is strange, and newer than new. He's not sure what to think about it yet, so he throws his whole self at the kiss. Sasha breaks it, eventually, in order to lean down even lower, on his elbow now, trailing kisses all the way to his ear only to whisper sweet nothings — you're doing good, _relax_, you're doing _fine_.

He adds a second finger, and Leonid flinches and whimpers, at first, then begins to absorb it just as the sweet nothings continue to pour into his ear. It doesn't hurt exactly, and he wonders how to even begin to describe this sensation, of both fullness and intrusion, and something else, entirely.

The third feels like it is _too much_ — Sash-sh — but then the three of them begin to move and twitch a little, bend just enough to find the spot that has him curling his toes, clawing at blankets and seeing stars. — F-fuck...

— How many stars? — Sasha asks, knowingly, as he leans down, cheek to cheek, sweating and panting together. — Huh, hundreds. — He stammers. — Thousands. — He isn't speaking the words, he's breathing them out.

_I want to make you see millions_.

Suddenly the fullness is gone. Sasha pulls away. He's fiddling with the jar again, trying very hard to focus, but it seems impossible, with Leonid there, splayed, so ready and wanting. He's torn, because he knows what _he_ wants and what's best for Leonid are now at odds. 

He leans down and whispers. — Turn... over. 

— Why?

— It'll be less p- _more comfortable_. For you.

— But I want to see you.

When Sasha doesn't answer, he asks, plaintive. — Don't you want to see me?

— I do — 

_Your comfort matters to me, too_.

— Look at me. Sasha. I won't break.

And that is all he needs, to ground himself. Preparations complete, he sets the jar to the side. 

— Alright. 

Reaching for one of the pillows, he lifts Leonid's hips and sets it underneath. The worn pillow doesn't seem enough, so he adds a second one. Finally, he leans down to wrap his lips in a slow, tantalizing kiss — Of course I want to see you — and pushes in.

Toptunov squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation. Sasha hovers above him, both of their breaths coming in bursts. _This incredible, unbearable tightness of being inside him_ — Find that... place again — Leonid interrupts his train of thought — Sasha. _Please_. — Desperate.

And so he sets out looking for it. Keeping the pace slow at first, he watches Leonid adjust and level out his breathing. In between his thrusts he dips down to plant kisses and tell him how good he is doing, how wonderful, how amazing he feels. He keeps varying the angle until

_finally_

he finds the right spot, and then it becomes his mission, his raison d'être. To find it again, and again, and again.

— Ahhh, ahh, _ah_, augh! Sa — 

As many times as it takes. He thrusts in, varying his rhythm a bit, driving Leonid to ricochet between pleasure and pain, so much that the jolts of discomfort and spasms of bliss entwine to become one and the same. 

And _there_. 

Toptunov cries out and Sasha falls head-first, next to him, right at the crest. 

He whisper the question — How many stars?

— M-millions. — Leonid's voice is raspy, wavering. — _Milliards_. 

He isn't entirely sure but he thinks he might have left the planet for a few seconds at least. 

Seizing and twitching, he rides out the waves of pleasure, air leaving his lungs in short gasps. Caught in the aftershocks, Akimov dives in, deep, to find his own release, all the while raining kisses, expletives, and _Lenyas_ into his sweat-soaked hair.

When they look at each other again, all caught up on the breathing but not yet able to form words, Sasha pulls away gently, shifting his weight to the side. Propped on his elbow, he is content to watch Leonid watching him, both of them wrapped in companionable silence.

Toptunov is still assembling the alphabet that's gotten scrambled in his head, relearning how to put together words to describe what just happened. But if someone were to ask him, right there and then, _Sasha Akimov, what is he to you?_ He'd have one word, at least.

_Home_. 

  


* * *

  


— Thank you — Toptunov whispers, after a long while.

He's wrapped in his arms, and partly covered with the blanket. His feet are pleasantly buried in the mess of sheets pushed to the end of the bed. Cleaned up (turns out, there were three towels) and content, he can feel Sasha's heartbeat pulsating into his back.

— For what?

— For you. For you, being you. Being here. _Fuck_. I don't even know what I'm saying. — He brings his hand up to rub his forehead. A moment later, Sasha wraps that hand with his own, playing gently with his fingers. — Being here, with me. And I... I'm with you.

Sasha leans closer, wraps him tighter and whispers back — I'm with you, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a [song by Spencer Maro](https://soundcloud.com/nocopyrightsounds/spencer-maro-starfire-ncs-release) which I came to by way of this [fanvid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZfnRDsuSc7E) (it will make you cry, though)
> 
> The voice modulation thing... look for clips of BBC Atlantis, where Pythagoras (played by the same actor who played Toptunov) says "I'm sorry. I'm boring you." It's like next-level ASMR sorcery, I swear.
> 
> That's all I have. Now tell me what you think.


End file.
